


A Splash of Color

by Unforth



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fluff, Gen, Supernatural Seasons Anthology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-17
Updated: 2018-03-17
Packaged: 2019-04-03 16:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13999767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: Something is very wrong in the bunker. There's color where no color should be.Written for the Supernatural anthology "Seasons."





	A Splash of Color

**Author's Note:**

> The Seasons anthology was a fundraiser featuring gen, canon compliant stories of approximately 1200 words by 100 fandom writers. You can learn more here: http://spnshortstories.tumblr.com.
> 
> I was assigned the season spring, which was very awesome since spring is my favorite. :)

There was color where no color should be.

Dean was certain that  _ something _ was out of place, but glancing around the Bunker kitchen he couldn’t figure out what. Suspicion and paranoia itched between his shoulders.

“Something seem off to you?” asked Dean as he plunked a cup of coffee down for Sam. His brother raked a hand through his hair, looked up with bloodshot, exhausted eyes, and glanced dully around the room.

“You made coffee?” Sam suggested, taking a sip. His expression blanched. “You made  _ really bad _ coffee?”

“That’s different from normal how?” countered Dean, dropping into a chair opposite his brother, crossing one leg over the other, and taking a swig. Bitterness seared his taste buds and he grimaced. “Fuck, it  _ is _ worse than usual. I’ll brew a new pot.” Dean leaned forward and reached for Sam’s cup, but Sam waved him away.

“Don’t bother,” said Sam. “Call it a pick-me-up.”

“Suit yourself.”

Rustling from down the hallway spoke to Castiel approaching; Dean rose and poured a third cup of coffee. He met Cas at the doorway and pushed the mug into his hands.

“Anything seemed fucked up to you?”

“According to my father’s plan, in a googolplex years there will be no matter or energy left in the universe, only endless darkness continuing to expand to infinity,” said Cas gruffly, taking the coffee.

“Wow,” said Dean after a beat pause. “Yeah, uh…that’s pretty fucked up.”

Cas took a sip from his mug. “Also, this coffee is dreadful.”

“Right,” muttered Dean. “Never mind.”

Dean’s unease didn’t dissipate.

Every time Dean stepped into the kitchen he caught a phantom glimpse of brightness. Was the Bunker haunted? Was he trapped in a djinn dream? Something something African dream root? Dean’s grip on reality had been knocked loose so many times that anything out of the ordinary jangled his nerves.

If something  _ was _ busted, Sam and Cas might be part of…whatever it was.

Tossing and turning in bed, unable to let the issue go, Dean gave up on sleep and went down to the kitchen again.

Color...

The fridges were white. The counters were stainless steel. The walls were off-white. The sink was bleached porcelain. The door and table were deep brown. The floor was...heck, Dean didn’t know what that color was but it was muted and fugly. The only splash of brilliant was on the industrial shelving by the fridge. A red coffee canister stood beside a yellow cereal box. Haphazardly stacked boxes of tea made a rainbow. A brilliant blue jumbo container of dish soap sat on the bottom shelf.

Nothing was out of place.

Disgruntled, Dean turned in a slow circle. Vision blurred by fatigue, the packaging on the shelving turned to meaningless blobs and streaks of color. 

“Are you alright?” Castiel’s voice startled him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, feeling absurd. Shaking his head, dizzying himself and smearing more color over his sight, Dean turned to his friend.

It must be something stupid. Sam’s cereal had a new box. Cas had pulled something out from behind other packages. The dry goods were stacked differently. Nothing dangerous. Nothing nefarious. Dean’s hyper-vigilant imagination was acting up. That was the only logical explanation.

“I’m fine. Go back to bed, Cas.”

“Same to you,” said Cas solemnly.

They stared each other down, then Dean nodded, brushed past his best friend and headed down the hall to his bedroom.

The next morning was a rinse-and-repeat of the previous day. Dean made shitty coffee. Sam shuffled the cereal boxes around as he poured his breakfast. Cas added a tea bag to his mug, as if the coffee wasn’t bitter enough. Color niggled at the edge of his vision. Dean forced himself to ignore it.

So passed a week.

Dean couldn’t take it anymore.

Exhausted from six nights of bad sleep, seven days of anxiety, Dean shambled into the kitchen and grabbed a beer. He’d tried,  _ truly  _ tried, to avoid resorting to alcoholic therapy, but he had to fucking  _ sleep _ . Maybe, with a clear head, he’d be able to see what was off. Sinking into a stools, Dean slumped against the wall and took a swig of beer.

There wasn’t nearly enough beer in one bottle.

“I wish you’d tell me what’s troubling you.” Castiel’s deep voice echoed through the disturbingly peaceful night.

Too tired to care, Dean made a vague gesture. “You know. Stuff.”

“Ah,” said Castiel, approaching the table. “Communication. The Winchester specialty.”

“Fuck you, Cas,” Dean replied, but there was no sting behind the words. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tilted his head back and chugged his drink.

He should have brought the six-pack over.

Scarce bothering to open his eyes – all he’d see was the familiar kitchen and the maddening glimpse of inexplicable color – Dean rose and stumbled toward the refrigerator, guiding himself with a finger trailed over the wall. When his touch met cool metal, Dean jerked the fridge door open and squinted at the contents. He grabbed the partial six-pack, removed another bottle, and popped the cap off using the edge of the nearest counter.

Color flashed before his vision.

Castiel was doing something at the table.

“What the...?” At the sound of Dean’s voice, Cas froze, his hands surrounding a blur of green and brilliant yellow that fogged in Dean’s bleary sight. “What’re you doing?”

“I’m changing them out,” said Cas matter-of-factly. Dean blinked to clear his vision. “The tulips were dying, so I got fresh daffodils.”

“Huh?” Even with Dean’s fricken  _ lifetime  _ of piss-poor choices, he’d rarely felt stupider.

“They usually only last a few days,” Cas continued. “I’m pleased with the Lebanon florist – these stayed healthy longer than I expected.”

A worn bouquet of red tulips sat on the table surrounded by a growing puddle. Castiel gave the daffodils one last floof, frowned and twisted an open bloom toward Dean.

“Have those been there all week?” asked Dean.

The vase was subtle, small; it blended with the wall when Cas nudged it into place.

Dean had grown so immune to beauty, so inured to horror, that he hadn’t registered their presence.

How depressing.

“I’m sorry,” said Cas. “When you didn’t object, I assumed you liked them.”

“No,” Dean replied. Cas’ uncertain head-tilt reflected Dean’s own uncertainty. “I mean...” Shaking his head, Dean walked across the room, deposited the beers on the table, and dropped onto a stool. A bright yellow-and-orange daffodil faced him, so reminiscent of a smile that Dean couldn’t help but smile back. “You want a beer?”

“Sure,” said Cas, grabbing one and sitting across from him. The hiss of escaping gas spoke to him removing the top. Dean looked up, met Cas’ eyes, and held out his bottle. Understanding his cue, Cas clinked his bottle against Dean’s, then watched wide eyed as Dean tapped his bottle on the vase as well, offering cheers to the cheerful bouquet.

“Thanks, Cas,” he said, taking a sip.

The bitter, unhappy feeling was gone from his gut.

Everything was fine.

“For what?” asked Cas blankly, taking a sip.

“For reminding me that somewhere outside this bleak shithole of a life, it’s spring.”

Cas smiled broadly around the mouth of his bottle.

_ I hope he keeps bringing more flowers. _

There was color  _ exactly _ where the Bunker needed color.


End file.
